Bodies of Water
I was born in North Hyde Park, Vermont, in 1885, an only child. This may explain my desire to explore the outdoors whenever I had the chance. Not having any siblings and living in this sleepy town of Antrim since 1895, running through the forests and empty fields was a way for me to get away. It is from one of these excursions that I come to tell you this story.
One of my favorite activities, when I’m out exploring, is finding a body of water where I can drown a worm. Living in Antrim has its advantages when it comes to fishing because the whole eastern boundary of Antrim, from Hillsborough to Bennington, is made of water—the Contoocook River. I’ve fished this river countless times from spring until fall, with many different friends and, of course, by myself, too.
On this particular day, November 23, 1902, the weather was mild. My father, Charles, had commented that it was in the fifties on Saturday, the forties this day, but still for a Sunday in late November, I wasn’t going to let a day like that go to waste. Monday I’d be back to school, and fishing would be only a memory. Don’t get me wrong...I liked school. I was a pretty good student, so I’d been told. I made the Roll of Honor for a few years. They even put my name in the Annual Reports in 1899 and 1900. In 1901 it read, “Roll of Honor – Three Terms – Fred Woodward.”
Fishing with friends is a lot more fun than fishing alone, even though there’s more fooling around than there is fishing, so I stopped by Ollie Cutter’s and Ralph Hurlin’s on the way to the river, but neither was home, so on that day, I would enjoy my own company. As I came into town and crossed over Main Street, I cut out behind the Presbyterian Church, through the puckerbrush, past the back door of the Antrim House until I hit the pasture road that leads due east to the river. It was only a minute or two later and I was hopping over the gate and into the field where I could see the river below me. I had another ten minutes of walking, five if I ran, until I reached the Contoocook. So, of course, I ran.
By the time I reached the bank of the river, I was out of breath and collapsed near a large red oak tree. Its roots were partially exposed, reaching out over the river where they had quenched the thirst of the old oak many years ago, but were now suspended in the air. The years of
melting snow and heavy rains had eroded the banks in several places, exposing very fine sand. The sandy bank was a good place from where to swim, land a boat or just fish. Eventually, the bank would erode so much that the red oak would topple over into the river, but not today.
I dug through my can of worms to find just the right one, placed him gently on my rusty old hook and tossed him quietly into the moving water. Bump. Bump. I snapped my rod and reeled it in and...nothing. Not even a worm. I found an even better worm, hooked him on, and in the water he went. Bump. Bump. I snapped the rod again and reeled as fast as I could and...nothing. I figured it must be minnows or tiny dace just eating my worms. I decided to move upriver to a better spot. I knew just the place!
I followed the path, created by others and me over the years, and crept through the low brush to the edge of a backwater, being careful not to make too much noise and risk scaring the fish. On the other side of the muddy ditch was my lucky spot. I crouched low, leaned forward, and with cat-like precision I jumped the ditch. In the air, all was well, until my right foot came down awkwardly on an old wet branch and I felt myself falling back into the ditch. In a last effort to save myself, I reached up and grabbed an ironwood tree on the edge of the bank. My hand slipped off the tree, but then suddenly my body jerked and swung around and I landed on my backside up against the ironwood, my hand and arm twisted up behind my back. As I untangled myself from around the tree, I realized that I had indeed slipped off the tree, but my hand and arm were caught in a thick brown rope that was wrapped around a low branch of the ironwood. Using my other hand, I removed the rope from my arm and hand and stood up to stretch my very sore back. The rope had saved me from an embarrassing flop into the muddy ditch.
Standing there stretching my back and staring at the rope, I wondered who would have put it there and why? My first thought was a trap full of bait put there by some fisherman for the upcoming ice-fishing season. It was better to leave it alone than to upset a fellow fisherman. As I looked at it further, I realized the rope stretched out into the middle of the river. A bait trap would most likely be placed along the bank of the river. I thought to myself, “What else could it be?” Looking over both shoulders and across the field behind me, making sure I hadn’t been followed, I placed my pole against the ironwood and set down my worms, then grabbed the rope with both hands and gave it a tug.
At first, I felt some resistance, but tugged at it again and felt it give. It felt as if whatever was on the other end was now floating above the bottom of the river and slowly coming towards shore. Slowly, hand over hand, I continued to pull the rope towards me. I felt a bump and then nothing, but I continued to pull. Again, I felt the weight of the object in the current of the river. Then something broke the surface of the water. I continued to pull. It wasn’t a trap, that was for sure! The thought of stopping and heading back home entered my mind, but I continued to pull. Slowly...constantly...with purpose, and then the rope jerked. Whatever it was, it had made it to the base of the riverbank. I looped the rope and knotted it around the lowest branch of the ironwood and tugged it once or twice to make sure it wouldn’t slip. I stepped to the edge of the bank and peered down into the river.
As I looked at the object in the water, many things sped through my mind. The rope was wrapped around the object's middle and then again at its end. My mind whirled, “Was it a bag? A sheet? Was it a duffel bag full of money from a robbery? Was it a tarp full of trash from a neighbor? What were the white parallel linear objects on one side?” As these thoughts ran through my mind, more and more I knew what I didn’t want it to be. The list of possibilities continued to churn in my brain but my mind always returned to that one thing it just shouldn’t be. Not in this river! Not at my favorite fishing spot! Not in this quiet little town! But that’s exactly what it was.
Immediately, I felt a rush of warmth in my face as I staggered back, my foot catching on the rope, and all I can remember is a blur of legs and feet floating in the air as I fell backward onto the ground near the ditch. After a moment, I sat up and shook my head as if to wake from a dream. I could see the rope attached to the tree and realized a dream it was not! I stumbled to my feet, jumped the ditch with room to spare, ducked through the brush and broke into the wide-open field. As I started to gather speed, I looked up towards town and could see the steeple of the Presbyterian Church towering over the trees and said out loud, “Five minutes if I run!” and boy did I run!
As I reached the front of the Antrim House, completely out of breath, I busted through the front door and nearly knocked over Mr. Harrison standing by the stairs. He grabbed me by the shoulders, sat me down in a chair and asked me what was going on? I thought, “Where do I begin?”
After sitting for a few minutes I was able to gather myself and catch my breath. When I looked up, Mr. Harrison had been joined by Mr. Trotter, no doubt curious about all the commotion in the front hallway. I explained what I had been doing earlier that morning and what I had found. The more I talked, the more their eyes widened until their pupils were a mere black speck in the middle of a glossy white ball. Mr. Trotter pulled me up by my arm and the three of us headed back to the river.
When we arrived, the knot I had fastened had loosened and the object was again in the middle of the river. Mr. Trotter grabbed the rope and slowly pulled it to the bank. Once it reached the edge of the river, Mr. Harrison assisted Mr. Trotter in dragging it up to the top of the bank. That’s when I got a good look at it. This was the first time I had ever seen a dead body.
They immediately sent me to fetch Selectman Milton Tenney who ordered me to run to Mr. Brownell’s home with instructions for him to meet him at the river. Mr. Brownell was the local undertaker for Antrim. When Mr. Brownell headed for the river, I decided it was time for me to go home. I had seen enough for one day; possibly for a lifetime.
On my way home I passed many people, some in groups of three or more, heading south on Main Street and cutting into the drive at the Antrim House. I heard later that most, if not all, were headed to the river to see what I had discovered that day. What I discovered that day was that I didn’t want to see another dead body for the rest of my life.
At school on Monday there was a lot of talk about the body discovered in the river the day before. All my friends were asking me questions about what I had seen and what it looked like, but I just didn’t want to talk about it. I just wanted that vision out of my mind. Shortly after lunchtime, my mother came to the school and told me that Sheriff Doane had stopped by the house and told her I needed to be at Town Hall by one o’clock that afternoon. After letting the principal know I was leaving, Mother and I walked together to the Selectmen’s office. All the way there, my stomach made all sorts of noises and my legs felt weak. I would have much rather been at school.
When we arrived, there were already about ten people waiting in chairs outside the office. There was not one smile among them. Promptly at one o’clock, Sheriff Doane stuck his head outside the door and quietly and politely said “Mister Woodward, would you please step inside?” I had never been called mister before so I knew this was serious. After twenty minutes or so, I was allowed to leave and mother and I slowly walked home. Neither of us said a word. There was nothing to say, at least not right now.
On Tuesday morning, I told my parents I wasn’t feeling well and wanted to stay home from school. I think they knew what was going on because there were no questions or arguments. They said they understood and left me alone for the rest of the day.
On Wednesday, November 26, I returned to school and the talk about the body was starting to dwindle, so I kept my head down and minded my own business as much as possible. When I returned home, my father was at the table reading the Antrim Reporter. He looked up at me and smiled when I entered and then returned to his paper. After a while he said “That was quite an ordeal you went through on Sunday. There’s an article in the paper about it and they mentioned your name a couple of times.”
“They did?” I said. My name had never been in the paper before, save for a few mentions about my school work and such. “What does it say?”
My father began reading and sure enough they mentioned how I had found the body, pulled it to shore and then ran to fetch Mr. Harrison and Mr. Trotter. It also talked about how I was questioned by Sheriff Doane at the Selectmen’s office on Monday.
“What does it say about the body?” I questioned. “Well it’s not very nice. Are you sure you want to hear it?” he said, as he looked over the top of his reading glasses directly into my eyes. I sat down across from him and put my elbows on the table and my chin in my hands and answered “Sure,” as he looked at me for a second and then began to read.
“Dr. Warner was next called: had made a close examination of the body. The breast bone was gone and part of ribs on left side. Top of the head gone. One side of head looked as if it had been sawed or cut. Other side of head crushed. The muscular tissue was withered or dried, leaving tendons or cords. Most of skin gone. Cords looked as if they had been dried before body was put in the water. Arteries seemed to be embalmed or filled with some preparation. Thought body had been in water some months. Don’t know its condition when put in water. Did not think body was put in water immediately after death. No articles of clothing to be found. No idea how preparation in arteries got there: believed it put there in case of embalming. The composition in arteries looked like a zinc substance which undertakers use.”
He read on...
“In search about river bank found a place where there had been a fire. Near fire found a lager
beer bottle, it was partly filled with a fluid. Smelled like liquor. Gave it to Selectmen (Selectman Tenney here produced the bottle.) Did not notice at the time any marks on the bottle, since had had his attention called to a name on the bottom of the bottle. Found within 20 ft. of river and 10 ft. of fire. The body of a person about 4 ft. tall and a male. Should think from 10 to 15 years of age. Don’t believe in murder or foul play the arteries would have been it that condition. Did not know how long person had been dead.
There’s more of the same but it does say that Dr. Christie and Dr. Chesnutt basically corroborated what Dr. Warner testified to.”
As he continued to read, my mind began to wander. Who was this boy? Where were his parents? Why did this happen to him? Why would anyone put his body in the river I love? More and more answerless questions flowed through my head until I was startled by my father calling “Fred? Are you okay?” I quietly replied, “I’m fine. I have some homework to finish,” and I left the room.
A couple of weeks passed and the chatter about the boy seemed to fade like the colors of the autumn leaves. I was done fishing for the year and who could blame me? Maybe I would never go near the river again. I was feeling better but I still had many questions. Questions that may never have answers. I had resigned myself to that fact.
On Wednesday, December 10, I arrived home from school to find my father sitting at the table reading his paper, as he did every Wednesday afternoon. As I entered, he looked up and smiled and watched me cross the room. “The jury returned a verdict about that boy you found in the river,” he said calmly, as if he was sure I would be interested. I was. “Oh yeah? What does it say?” I said, as I hung up my coat. “Well, it’s not much but they did print your name again...at the inquest rendered a verdict in the case of the skeleton, which was found in the Contoocook river, on Sunday, Nov. 23d, by Fred Woodward. Nothing new had transpired to shed any further light on the case. The jury consisting of O. W. Brownell, G. H. Perkins and Morton Paige returned the following verdict: after the usual form it continued. That the body being nothing but skeleton, the flesh and muscles being decayed or removed and there being no means of identification from all evidence produced, it is impossible for them to say when, how and by what means the said unknown boy came to his death. So the persons aforesaid upon their oaths aforesaid do say, that the said unknown boy came to his death in a manner and form unknown to them. This probably brings to a close one of the most mysterious cases ever having occurred here. The case will not be reopened unless something new is discovered: the records of the inquest are filed at the county office.”
Returned the following verdict? Aforesaid upon their oaths? Brings to a close? Are you kidding me? Legal jargon that’s all it was. They were no closer to answering any of the questions I had. I found that boy! I did what I could! I did my part! The least they could do was find out who he was. I screamed it all. Well, I screamed it all in my head. In reality, I found myself staring at my father who was staring back at me. I sat down at the table and sighed. That is not what I wanted to hear. I felt responsible for finding this boy, but I was left with nothing I could do.
“So, I guess it’s over,” I said into the table, not looking at my father.
“Yes, it sounds as if it is. It sounds as if everyone did what they could and it will remain a mystery for now,” he replied. “Fred, I’m proud of you. You did exactly what you should have done. Nothing less, nothing more,” and with that, he smiled and continued to read his paper.
I left the table and headed to my room. It was already beginning to get dark outside, and I could hear the December winds as they rattled the branches outside my bedroom window. As I sat at my desk and opened my reading book, I thought about what tomorrow would bring. I thought about my friends Ollie and Ralph. I thought about running down the pasture road and jumping the fence. I thought about the cold, flowing river. I thought about the boy and his family. And yes, I thought about fishing, perhaps, some day.
This is a true story. Although liberties were taken with regard to what Fred Woodward was doing the day he found the body in the river and the days that followed, the rest of the story is true as reported in the Antrim Reporter on November 26 and December 10, 1902. You can read both articles online at the Antrim Limrik website http://antrimlimrik.org/the-antrim-reporter
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